Gorthauro Estel
by Sauron Gorthaur
Summary: What if Sauron had not fled? What if he had taken Eonwe's advice and returned to Valinor to be judged at the beginning of the Second Age? Could he have found redemption, forgiveness, even love?
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Notes: This is a story that's been wanting to be told for a very long time. For about 4 years it's been developing itself in my mind, but I was hesitant to put pen to paper (or fingers to keyboard) and actually present my story to others for a number of reasons. However, again for a number of reasons, I have decided that I can't keep this tale to myself any longer. It wants to be told, and I've finally decided to let it.**

**Part of my reason for writing is that in 5 years on , I have only found ONE completed Sauron romance. I don't live in any delusions that Sauron is ever going to be as popular as Legolas, Maedhros, or even our angsty friend Maeglin, but still – only one? The idea of redemption is a powerful theme for me, and I have always seen some spark in Sauron that cries out for redemption. I don't see Sauron as the "ultimate evil" shadow but as a fully-faceted character who has made some terrible mistakes, who is living in deep pain and darkness, and who still, despite all his wrongs, has never completely marred the good, beautiful image in which he was originally created, especially at the time this story is set – at the beginning of the Second Age.**

**I have reason to believe that Tolkien himself felt the same. One particular quote that has always struck me comes from **_**Unfinished Tales**_** "The History of Galadriel and Celeborn" (page 254 in my copy). "At the beginning of the Second Age, [Sauron] was still beautiful to look at, or could still assume a beautiful visible shape – and was not indeed wholly evil…" I could go on at length about my reasoning behind my particular view of Sauron, but my story itself will show some of it, so I shall refrain. :)**

**Also, please note that if you are interested, my story "No Going Back" can act as a prologue to this story. Reading that story is by no means necessary for understanding this one, however. NGB explores my take on Sauron's motives for repenting and shows the interaction between Sauron and Eönwë, which I don't get into here because I'd already done it there. NGB is the canon version of these events, but even though "Gorthauro Estel" is AU, my view of Sauron's, and Eönwë's, characters, motives, etc. are the same in both stories and all the events in NGB, leading up the changing point where Sauron flees at the very end, I see as the same for this chapter.**

**Finally, I would like to dedicate this first chapter to my inspiring friend, Lysana, without whose encouragement, frequent nudges, and belief in this tale, "Gorthauro Estel" might never have been begun. Thanks, Lysana – I hope my story lives up to your expectations!**

**And to you, all my readers – Mae govannen a hannon le!**

* * *

**Gorthauro Estel  
****-or-  
****Sauron's Hope**

**by Sauron Gorthaur**

Chapter 1

It was much too bright.

It wasn't that he hated and feared the light the way Melkor had or that it pained him the way it pained the orcs or even that he was unused to it like Gothmog or Ancalagan who had rarely been allowed to leave the caverns of Angband. He had walked beneath the Sun and the Moon many times, for his high position had required many tasks of him. His proficiency at blending and changing forms, as well as the fair face he could give himself when he wished, had allowed him to walk abroad without the shadow of Morgoth always swathing him as many of the Dark Vala's lesser servants had required. He adapted, light or dark, and it had never particularly bothered him before.

But seated now in the middle of the slim Telerin swan-boat with nothing but smooth ocean water and a burning sun to see, he was suddenly overwhelmed with the intensity of the light surrounding him. Everything seemed to glow: the white wood of the craft, the painfully blue sky, and the myriad of white diamond points that glistered across the entire ocean expanse. There was nowhere to hide from it; even the rippling shadow of the sail provided little relief. It was as if everything was made of the light…everything except for him, that was.

He knew he was being pointedly ignored by the crew. In the case of the Elves, it was probably out of fear. In the case of the few Maiar that accompanied them, it might be from anger, hatred, or even awkwardness. No one had spoken to him since they had left Middle-earth two weeks ago, but he hadn't exactly expected joyful greetings. Wrapped still in the black cloak and clothing that he'd worn as Morgoth's Black Captain, he knew he stood out like an ink stain on a white parchment. And so, he was left to his thoughts, though he couldn't decide yet whether this was a blessing or a curse.

He fidgeted uncomfortably, tugging at the embroidered hem of his sleeve and pulling his cloak tighter about himself to ward off the cool sea breeze. Squinting his eyes against the overpowering light, he watched the hurried activity as Elves tugged on ropes, readjusted the sails, and went about other sea tasks, the purposes of which he could not guess. Melkor had hated the sea, and Sauron had found that Melkor's hate was infectious. Not that Melkor's fear and hate hadn't been justified, for he had unfortunately been correct in guessing that his doom, and that of his servants, would come from the sea. And now here, he – Sauron – was, sailing across that very sea from which his enemies had come, and not only that, but straight into his enemies' hands. _Melkor would call me an absolute fool,_ Sauron thought dejectedly. _And maybe I am._

A young Elf, one of the Vanyar if his golden hair was any indication, was scrubbing the ship railing across from Sauron. _As if it needed to be any brighter_, Sauron thought. The Maia watched him out of boredom, and to keep his thoughts from straying to the ship's destination and his own fate. He curled his lip slightly at the menial task. Doubtlessly, this Elf would take great offense to be called a slave, and yet, Sauron could see little difference between him and the slaves that had labored at Angband. Could this Vanya have refused the one, Maia or Elf, who had given him his servile task any more than one of Melkor's slaves could have disobeyed the Dark Vala?

The Vanya fidgeted, glanced around, and saw Sauron watching him. The Elf quickly averted his eyes and scrubbed even harder at the spotless wood a few seconds before abandoning all dignity and hurrying to some part of the ship where Sauron's piercing gaze could not reach him. Sauron smirked a little. At least, he was not completely bereft of the power and dark aura that he had gained in Melkor's service. At least the Elves still knew to give him a wide berth and a healthy dose of respect. For now. Until the Valar dealt with him.

Dark thoughts closed in again at that. Frowning and dismissing all thoughts of the Elf, Sauron leaned his head against the railing and closed his eyes, but he could still see the sunlight blazing white through his eyelids. He sighed and pulled his hood over his face.

That was a little better. Darkness finally settled over his vision. The creak and moan of the ship, along with its unnerving movement, could not let him completely relax, though. Nor could his thoughts. As one of Melkor's chief servants, he had learned to control his thoughts, but everything that had happened over the last few months seemed to have chipped away at that particular ability. Now, when he wasn't agonizing over the decision he'd made only a few weeks ago in Middle-earth, he was agonizing over the fate that awaited him in Valinor.

He preferred the former, simply because he knew there was absolutely nothing he could do about it, now that it was already behind him and set in the stone of history. He had made his decision, for better or worse, and Eönwë had supported him in it, though he wasn't sure whether that was a good or bad omen. If anyone wanted to see him run straight into his doom, surely it was the commander of his foes' army.

"There is some wisdom left in you," Eönwë had said, looking at him with eyes as piercingly blue as the sky of the Vala he served. "But you're still afraid."

_Of course, I'm afraid,_ Sauron had thought with a mental sneer. He turned from Manwë's Herald and fiddled with the blue and gold curtains of the tent, running his fingers over the smooth silk. "The Valar were not exactly merciful to my…former…master," he said slowly in his practiced voice even smoother than the silk.

"You forget that Morgoth was already given an opportunity to repent once," came Eönwë's voice from behind him. It was hard and sharp, like one of the swords with which Eönwë had such skill.

Sauron smiled bitterly to himself at the words. Ironically, Eönwë's point was exactly what he feared. He would hardly call the fate Morgoth had originally suffered merciful. Humiliated, humbled, tossed in a dungeon for three ages. Sauron felt his stomach twist and his cheeks flare. As far as he was concerned, that was a living death. For not the first time, he wondered whether he really wanted to go through with this or not. He could slip out that night, blend into the shadows, and creep away into the rent world that was left from the war. But if they caught him then…

"The Valar learned their lesson with Morgoth," Eönwë said suddenly, and Sauron jerked around to face him. His breath caught as he first wildly thought that Eönwë meant that he would not be spared after all or granted any mercy as they had first done with Melkor. He looked around, half-expecting to see armed guards surrounding the tent, ready to drag him straight to the Void. A dungeon might be humiliating, but the Void… torn from the world he'd bound himself to, left as a meaningless scrap of life with no purpose, no real existence, no form… But Eönwë was shaking his head slowly, as if he could read Sauron's thoughts.

"Whether you believe it or not," the Herald continued, "the Valar _were_ merciful to Melkor. But they didn't count on his rage and hate. All his punishment did was make him hate them all the more and make him angrier than he'd ever been. Leaving him alone to his own thoughts, letting him simmer in the dark for three ages, was no way to bring him back. They won't be making that mistake with you."

He eyed Sauron thoughtfully then beckoned to him. "I have something to give you," he said as he turned and drew back another tent flap leading into the inner room: his private chamber.

Sauron followed cautiously, still not convinced that other Maiar, or perhaps the Valar themselves, wouldn't show up to bind him in unbreakable chains and drag him off to Valinor in humiliation. But Eönwë was simply leaning over a chest by his bed, putting aside his few belongings as he looked for something. Sauron folded his arms, frowning, and waited impatiently.

Finally, Eönwë turned back to him, and as he did so, Sauron's breath caught. At first, he wasn't sure that the object in the Herald's hand was really what he thought it was, but as Eönwë approached, he recognized it beyond any doubt. A numbness crept over his heart, and he withdrew as if Eönwë was holding a poisonous snake. "I don't want _that_," he said in a choked voice, his sculptured composure finally crumbling for a moment.

Eönwë looked grim. "I was asked to give it to you when I met you here." Sauron gave him a shocked look, and Eönwë nodded. "Yes, the Valar knew we'd meet here. They didn't know whether you would be brought here captive or whether you'd come of your own will, but you're not as far from the Valar's thoughts as you think you are, Sauron. And hopefully that comforts you."

He set the object down on top of the chest but did not put it away again. "You may use my bed for the night, and you will not be disturbed until the ship leaves in the morning."

There was an unpleasant knot in Sauron's throat, and he had to swallow before he could answer, attempting to regain some of his nonchalance and dignity. "And I suppose I will be well-guarded," he sneered.

Eönwë gave him a long, steely look. "To keep others _out_, not to keep you _in_. You're not exactly popular in this camp, and the Elves are not as merciful as the Valar. They also have tendencies towards revenge, or didn't you learn that from the Noldor? If you chose to leave, you would not be stopped. But if you run, the truce is over, and we will hunt you down again."

Sauron let his lip curl slightly upward. The only card he had left at this point was clinging to his dark ambiance as the Black Captain and keeping up his pretense of cool arrogance. Despite the fact that he'd very nearly been caught that morning already and his fear of the howling dogs on his trail had been a large deciding factor in his decision to surrender, he wasn't going to admit that before Eönwë, the Valar, or any other opponent.

However, Eönwë's piercing look made Sauron feel uncomfortably certain that the Herald could tell his bravado was for show only. "There is spare clothing, as well," the Maia of Manwë added. "You might want to change out of that before the morning," he said, glancing over Sauron's dusty, torn garments.

Sauron folded his arms. "I am satisfied with what I have on, thank you very much," he snapped, casting a scornful eye over the blue, gold, and white (_white_!) articles of clothing that Eönwë had put to the side for him.

Eönwë rubbed his temples with slender fingers and closed his eyes briefly, letting out a long, audible sigh. He gave Sauron an aggravated look. "Listen, Sauron," he said exasperatedly. "You might want to ask yourself what you're doing here. If you think the Valar are going to let you just parade into Valinor and live there like the arrogant dark lord you're used to being, then you're going to be disappointed. If you really are sorry, even if you're just afraid, you've still got a home, but we're done with dark lords in Valinor. We're of the same order, and I can't punish you anymore than I can pardon you, but the Valar aren't going to put up with your insolence like I am. So, ask yourself, Sauron, what exactly do you want?"

He turned and vanished through the tent flap, and Sauron was left alone to brood for the first time over the decision he'd made. What exactly did he want? He could hear the sea and the faint creak of the Telerin ships moored there. He was glad he had not eaten the bread that Eönwë had offered him earlier as he wasn't sure he would have been able to keep it down now; his stomach was fluttering wildly. He lay down on Eönwë's bed, hoping that would keep his nausea at bay, but in that position he found himself looking at the top of the chest and the hammer that still lay there. He tried to ignore it, but he found his gaze glued to it as the red light of sunset slowly vanished from the tent. Three times he got up and walked to the entrance of the tent, the last time even putting his hand to the flap, each time telling himself that he would leave, that he had no place here and certainly not in Valinor, but the image of the hammer kept burning in his mind, and each time he returned and lay down again.

Finally, when it was perhaps midnight, he reached over and picked up the hammer.

He had never forgotten it, the hammer that Aulë himself had made for him and with which had taught him the skills of the forge. He had spent hours with that same hammer in his hand, toiling beside the fire, watching with delight as chunks of gold and silver and shapeless gems had turned into beautiful works of art. Morgoth had not wasted his Dark Captain's skills, but the cruel weapons, countless chains, and instruments of torture to which Morgoth had set his talents were hardly the same. He wondered how long it had been since he made a ring, a brooch, something, _anything_, beautiful. As he rubbed the rough, familiar wood, he remembered what it first had felt like to know he had a purpose in the world and that he was doing what he was created to do.

_What exactly do you want, Sauron?_

Why had he not fled yet? Why did he not slip away to some dark hole far away in the ruins of the world and hide until the Valar had forgotten that he ever existed? Eventually, they would. Why did he submit himself to this humiliation and mental anguish, why did he even consider returning to the land of his foes, when he could live on, unpunished, unhumbled, himself alone in some dark land?

In his heart, he knew the answers, and the sight and touch of the hammer simply made those answers bubble to the surface. Deep down, he knew he did not want to pass away: some dark, forgotten shadow on a breeze of a forgotten age, spending the rest of his existence merely cowering under a rock in fear. He wanted to think he was more than a rag tossed away after all use had been wrung from it. He wanted to know he still had a purpose in Arda.

Suddenly, he broke. His legs gave out from under him and he collapsed on the strange bed, curling up upon himself and holding the hammer to his chest. The storm of emotions that had been building up inside of him over the last days and weeks and months and, perhaps, even longer – heart-rending fear, searing anger, numbing despair, empty loneliness – cracked and tears were suddenly running down his face into the soft pillow. Alone, exhausted physically and mentally, scared and angry and sick at heart, he wept long into the new morning.

And at the dawn, he had boarded the white elven ship to sail to Valinor.

On the ship, lost in thought and memories, with his dark hood shading his face, Sauron's consciousness slipped further away from the present. Vaguely, on the very edge of his awareness, he could still feel the steady rock of the ship and hear the ghostly creak of wood. Darkness pressed down on his eyes, darker than the mere shadow of his hood. Through the darkness, he saw a pinpoint of light, and he moved towards it. His feet were unsteady though and the ground treacherously shifting, as if he were balancing on pieces of floating ice in a river. He struggled on towards the light, but it didn't seem to get any closer. He could see some of the landscape now: a bleak, desert-like plain. He realized it was Anfauglith, and then he saw that there were great cracks running through the burning plain and that underneath, the earth was still on fire from the long ago battle. Fumes and an evil red light rose from the cracks, which themselves suddenly seemed larger than they had been a moment ago. He knew that if he were to reach the light he would have to jump across what he now saw were gaping chasms. But he knew he could not stay here – why, he was not sure, but the burning plains and the fiery chasms terrified him.

He looked up and saw a tower rising in front of him now, and at its very top was the yellow light that he had first seen from a distance. It was close, but he was separated from it by the widest chasm of all. But his heart leapt, as looking down, he saw there was a bridge crossing the abyss. He ran for it, knowing somehow that his life counted on reaching it in time.

He stepped onto the bridge, a fleeting hope of survival passing through him, but the moment his foot touched the stone, he saw the dark shape lying in the middle of the bridge. His spine tingled.

The giant wolf, its fur pitch-black and its evil eyes blazing red like fire, rose and stared at him, and terror coursed through him. He suddenly recognized the bridge and the tower; it was his own Tol-in-Gaurhoth. He could not pull his eyes away from the wolf as it moved towards him, its hungry, cruel gaze boring into him. His voice was useless. His legs would not move. The tower was the only place where he could be safe, but the demonic wolf was stalking him. Its eyes filled his vision, and he tried to scream, but he could only make muted cries. He was afraid, utterly afraid and utterly alone.

He gagged, and his eyes flew open. Panic was still coursing through him, causing his limbs to shake violently, and his skin was hot and sticky as if he'd been trapped in a furnace. His throat felt strained and raw, and he realized he had woken himself up with his own strangled screams. He lifted a shaking hand to his neck, swallowing, and tried to regain his composure and adjust to the fact that he was awake and it had been nothing but a nightmare.

He squinted against the light – if anything, it had grown even brighter while he slept – and realized that several Elves and a couple Maiar, a dark-haired woman and a red-haired man, were looking at him oddly. Probably, they had heard his choked cries, but they made no move to help him. He snarled at them like a feral beast, and the Elves quickly turned away. The two Maiar watched him a few seconds longer, their faces unreadable, but then they too disappeared. Sauron huddled back down into his seat, completely miserable, an empty ache eating away at his insides.

But then he heard the cry from the swan prow of the ship in a clear elven voice that was filled with the nauseating joy of homecoming. It was just about enough to make Sauron want to strike the voice's owner over the railing and into the sea.

"Land! Land!"

The emptiness was immediately coupled with the familiar knot in his sore throat. Sauron squeezed his eyes shut and listened to the pulse in his ears.

They had arrived at Valinor.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

All the Elves had hurried to the front of the ship as soon as land was sighted, leaving Sauron deserted in the middle of the vessel. Instinctively, he tugged his cloak close about his body, as if it could ward off his impending doom, whatever it would be. His throat still felt tight, and his stomach had gone from fluttering like a bird to feeling like it was weighed down with bricks. He let his head droop forward, and his long, black hair fell curtain-like around his face, blocking out the sight of the rejoicing Elves and Maiar and the land they had now reached. He resisted the urge to cover his ears with his hands, as well.

A tremor ran through the entire keel of the shallow ship as the prow bumped against the quay. Sauron automatically put out his hands to steady himself, though in reality the vibration was hardly more dramatic than the waves they'd run into on the windier days out at sea. But with his nerves on edge, everything seemed heightened: every brush of wind across his skin, every bump of the ship as the Elves on shore flung ropes to the Teleri on board, every whisper of the sea against the boards beneath his feet. He'd been in this state before and recognized it, though usually previously he'd been in a battle or on the edge of a fight and had an outlet for the adrenaline coursing through him. Everything in him told him to run, to fight for his survival, to kill anything in his path that threatened him. But with the acute control he had taught himself over the years in Morgoth's service, he forced himself to remain seated and listened to each breath come shuddering out of his mouth.

"Sauron."

The two Maiar who had acted as commanders during the voyage were suddenly standing in front of him. Sauron slowly lifted his head and brushed back his hair, keeping his fingers steady. The dark-haired woman was tall and had a slight, hunter's form, an image completed by her forest-green attire and the hunting knife at her belt. Obviously, a Maia of Oromë, although he didn't know her name or remember her from the days before he had left. The man was stockier and had a strong, square face that Sauron had yet to see without a scowl on it. His red hair matched the sun-brown of his complexion. Sauron remembered his face vaguely from the early days, but no name came with it; but he figured this Maia had as little love for Morgoth's servants as did his master, Tulkas.

It was the man who had spoken and when Sauron looked up at him, he gave an unceremonial jerk of his head toward the plank that had been lowered between the ship and the quay. "You're to come with us."

Most of the Elves were already on shore, many greeting friends and laughing in their clear voices. A few were standing solemnly beside mourning Eldar who had evidently just received news of a loved one's fall. One golden-haired Vanya stood sobbing just to the right of the plank, holding to her chest a green scarf soiled with all-too-familiar dark stains while several men, including the young fellow Sauron had seen scrubbing the railing only a little while ago, stood around her with their heads bowed and their hands on her shoulders.

Sauron walked down the plank, the two Maiar following closely behind him, and as eyes began to fall on him, he scowled inwardly at how much he looked like a prisoner being flanked by guards. Not that it wasn't the closest thing to the truth. Sauron knew perfectly well why the Maiar had come along. The Telerin sailors were completely capable of sailing back to Valinor on their own without Maiarin overseers. Maybe he could have run back in Middle-earth, but that option was far behind him. There was nowhere to run in Valinor. Eönwë had said that the Valar would not be making the same mistakes with him as they had with Melkor, and Sauron assumed this probably included letting him slip out of their sight.

His presence washed over the Elves like an early frost sweeping across a field of flowers. As he passed, silence fell over everyone, revelers and mourners alike, and they drew apart before him as if afraid that they would fall over dead if so much as his cloak brushed against them. Hundreds of eyes bored into him, some angry, some shocked, some simply bewildered or curious. He had no doubt that news of his coming had proceeded him, whether Ulmo himself had borne it or some other Maia of the sea or even the birds of Manwë, but he did not know what might have been said. He was not sure how much the Elves of Aman knew about the Wars that their cousins had been carrying out for hundreds of years in Beleriand or how many dark tales they knew about Morgoth and his Black Captain. But whether or not they knew him by name or by reputation, there could be no doubt among them about what he was, flanked as he was by the two stern-faced Maiar and clad still in his deviceless black garments, his face the darkly fair mask that he had worn as Morgoth's tempter and deceiver.

He could feel their anger. It was something he had grown used to sensing in the air. There was even hatred, its bitter heat and numbing cold biting him from every side. He could almost hear the accusations, threats, and abuses just waiting to slip off of every tongue in that hostile crowd. It did not bother him; he had been hated for far more years than he cared to count.

No, what bothered him was their lack of fear.

What he had first assumed was fear as they drew apart before them, he now saw in their eyes was loathing, as if the touch of his cloak might defile them. In and of itself, that too would not have bothered him, for he had little doubt that every servant under him at Angband or Gaurhoth had felt the same. But his servants had cringed away from him when he looked in their direction. They had groveled at his feet when he raised his voice in anger. His mere presence had been enough to set them trembling. He knew the smell of fear as well as that of anger or hatred. And it was completely absent now.

And worst of all, he knew the reason why.

It was not uttered until he had almost reached the edge of the crowd and could no longer hear the creak of ships or the slosh of water. Silence still held the Elves frozen, their glares burning into him. But as the last of the crowd parted to avoid his touch as one would avoid the touch of a plague-victim, he heard a shout from behind him.

"May the Valar deal with you as you deserve, dark one! Join your evil master!"

The one voice unleashed the flood-gates. All the pent-up sorrow, rage, and hate boiled over, and suddenly Sauron's ears were ringing with the countless cries of the Elves. Taunts, insults, and an endless list of grievances crashed against him like some engine of war. They did not fear him now. He was a helpless prisoner, powerless before their victorious Valarin kings and queens. He was in _their_ land. He was a doomed enemy, a vicious dog with its teeth ripped out who could now be kicked at will by those it had bitten. He looked up at the seething mass and silently hated them back with all his might.

He turned away, his back stiff, his heart roiling, even as he heard the commanding shouts of his Maian guards telling the Elves to be quiet and go back to their own business. He hated them for it. He hated them for reminding him that he was no longer the one giving orders, for making it clear to the Elves that there was nothing he could do to them. Everything – everything that mattered for him – had changed.

~o~o~o~

Five hours had passed since Sauron arrived in Valinor. The day had brightened as afternoon drew on and the chariot of the Sun neared its resting place on the far side of Aman before it would begin its descent beneath the world. In that time, his "escorts" had brought him to the city of Valmar (or, more appropriately, to a small dwelling place on the outskirts of Valmar, as the Maiar probably did not want the entire elven population of the capital making a similar scene to the one at the harbor.)

Instead, it was Sauron who had made a scene, if anyone had been around to see it, though at this point, he had thankfully been left to himself. Finally alone, he unleashed his considerable rage upon a collection of cooking utensils, a wall tapestry, and various pieces of furniture. As he smashed the dining room chairs one by one with his bare hands, he imagined them to be Elves and Maiar, and the snap of wood transformed to the all-too-familiar crack of bone in his ears. It was hardly satisfying – if anything, it only reminded him of his powerlessness to harm his real foes – but it released the overwhelming fury from his system and left him spent, with only a smoldering resentment heating his face.

He had been provided washing and drinking water, food, and new clothing, this time of a dark blue and deep gold material with no device. After he had regained his composure and began to think straight once again, Sauron took advantage of these comforts. It had been weeks since he'd washed properly, and he had a feeling that appearing well-groomed before the Valar would be better than playing the pathetic tramp, which at this point he doubted would earn him an ounce of pity.

Quite frankly, he was not sure how to handle his audience with the Valar, which his guards had informed him would take place that evening. He had played arrogant with Eönwë, but he knew the Herald's warnings had been justified. There were individual Valar that he might have taken a chance with – Aulë who had an legendary soft heart, Nienna who was known for her compassion, or even Irmo or Estë who might be more interested in healing him than punishing him for the moment. But Sauron had no doubt that he would warrant the attention of the full council of fourteen, and he was equally sure that Valar such as Oromë, Tulkas, and Námo would not be impressed or endeared by any show of power or pride from him.

But he had made up his mind with equal conviction that he was not going to grovel, scrape, or beg either.

He forced himself to eat the fresh fruit and bread that he found in the cupboard; he had not eaten well on the ship and did not want to be any more light-headed than he was already going to be. After that, he meandered into the bedroom and flopped across the bed dejectedly, letting one hand fall off the edge and trail against the floor in thoughtless circles. He wished he had been taken straight to the Valar upon arriving. It was something he had learned from Melkor: if you were going to be punished, it was better to get it over with sooner rather than later. Especially if you hadn't even the slimmest chance of escape. Which he knew he hadn't.

He found himself stroking his forefinger over the metal head of his hammer, which he'd kept with him, though carefully concealed under his loose outer robe, for the entire voyage. He pulled it out of the dark blue outer robe that draped over his shoulders and hung open in the front, revealing the matching tunic and black leggings underneath. He stared at the tool blankly, his fingers tracing the notches and scars that hundreds of blows had left on its surface. Properly, it should have been smoothed back down, polished and mended on a regular basis, but Sauron had no doubt that the Valar had sent it to him in this state on purpose. He was no fool. He read the symbolism and the message he had been sent as clearly as letters on a page. Angrily, he let the hammer slip out of his fingers and drop onto the bed at his side. Then he rolled over with his back to it.

He was fairly sure that the polishing process was no fun for the hammer.

A loud knock on the front door startled him out of his reverie.

He glanced out the window automatically and saw that it was not yet evening. Perhaps his trial had been moved. _Maybe Ulmo actually showed up early for once and they decided to get it over with_, he thought sardonically.

Even though he'd wanted just that, the thought sent up new flurries in his stomach, and he was suddenly not sure he could trust his legs to hold him. _Wonderful, I'll look stunning crawling into the Ring of Doom on all fours or being carried by my escorts, _he mentally derided at himself. He rolled over onto his back and stared at the intricate lattice of knotting carved in the ceiling wood. _If they want me, they can come in and get me themselves, _he decided, letting his arrogant streak take control for the moment so that it could push down his fear.

The door opened, and he heard heavy footsteps pause briefly in the entry way, doubtlessly surveying the mess of broken crockery, shredded tapestry, and splintered wood that Sauron had left on the floor. But then the steps progressed onward, and the bedroom door creaked slightly as a hand pushed it open from the other side. In his peripheral, Sauron saw the figure standing in the doorway. His skin prickled, and he instantly knew that it was not one of his guards.

He sat up so fast that the blood rushed from his head, causing his vision to dance with red and black points of light.

The man standing in the doorway was tall, but few would have probably guessed that he was one of the seven lords of the Valar. His face was pleasant, noble, and etched with an infinite compassion, but distinctly plain. His mottled brown hair was tied back neatly from his square, strong features, but he had a full wiry beard, which was a hint darker than his hair, almost soot grey-black around his lips, sticking out in a cloud of several inches around his chin and cheeks. His skin was rough, fire-browned, and tight over his compactly muscled frame, and he had small wrinkles around his eyes as if from hours of squinting into bright light. His clothes were equally plain: a deep molten-red jerkin, granite-grey leggings, and brown boots.

Only his eyes showed him as something more. They were a striking combination of gold and silver as if both metals had been poured together and mixed thoroughly – the gold shone clear but was speckled with pinpoints of the silver that made his eyes gleam. It was what lay behind them though that revealed the man's true nature: an eternal flame of grandeur and gentle power that washed over Sauron like the heat of a fire. In short, Aulë, Lord of the Earth, looked exactly the same as when Sauron had last seen him.

Sauron stumbled to his feet, his tongue feeling dry and swollen against his teeth. His heart was beating much harder than he liked. He had not dreamed that he would have to face any of the Valar, let alone his first master, before his trial, and even though he didn't fear immediate retribution from Aulë the way he would if he had found Oromë or Tulkas suddenly standing in his doorway, he was not prepared, in body or mind, to face one of the fourteen most powerful beings in Arda and answer the uncomfortable questions and accusations that Aulë would undoubtedly have.

But Aulë neither questioned nor accused for the moment. Instead, the Vala of Earth just looked at him long and hard with his deep gold eyes flecked with silver, his mouth a thin, straight line amidst the tangle of his beard. Sauron did his best to look back, but the power radiating from the Vala's eyes soon forced him to look away. It made him want to crawl under the bed or shrink down to the size of an insect. He hated his own inferiority, the sense that this being could snap his power in half like a dry twig if he wanted, the terrible, terrible urge to bow down and submit himself to the lord he had been sent into this world to serve.

But yet, at the same time, he felt a flicker of scorn at the unassuming figure of his former master. Aulë had always preferred simplicity over flair; his lessons were continually of restraint and control. Even the jewels he made at the forge, though beautiful beyond the reckonings of most, had a signature austerity, as if their maker was simply doing what he loved to do, with no thought of showing off his talent. It was something that had always irked Sauron. It was part of the reason why the eyes of the young Maia had been drawn elsewhere…

For there had been nothing plain, nothing unassuming, about Melkor. The Dark Vala had a flair that Sauron had never seen matched, and his lessons were more pleasing to the ambitious, talented apprentice smith than those of Aulë.

"It is foolish to keep your powers at bay," Melkor had told him once. "How can you know the extent of your own skill if you do not use it, stretch it to its very limits, relish it, and watch it work? This is art, Mairon. There are no rules. Constraint is for fools who fear to press themselves, those who live in fear of others who _might not approve_. Why should you be ashamed to reveal yourself, fully and proudly, and let the world know exactly who you are?"

"Master Aulë says that raw talent and power must be tempered with training and control," Sauron – young Mairon then (though he did not remember it) – had answered, a puzzled frown on his face as he tried to reconcile the two conflicting lessons. "He says there must always be rules, or else everything will fall into chaos and return to the Void."

"Mairon, Mairon," Melkor purred softly. "Who makes those rules? That's the only question that matters. Either you make your own rules or someone else makes them for you. And who has any right to tell you how you should use your own talent? Your power is yours, to do whatever you want to with it."

And so Mairon the apprentice had abandoned his rightful master's lessons and submitted to the new tutelage of Melkor.

And now, here Sauron the Black Captain was, back face-to-face with the being he had scorned, abandoned, and betrayed, whose lessons he had ignored, and his fate was in that same Vala's hands. As he stared at the wood panels of the floor, Sauron considered what a thoroughly awkward situation he was in.

He had expected accusations, a lecture at the very least. He did not expect the word that Aulë finally spoke in a voice deeper than the caverns of Angband and more soft and gentle than the first warm breath of spring through the winter's chill.

"_Nauron."_

Sauron's head shot back up at the sound of the name. _Fiery One_. It had always been Aulë's personal name for him, an endearment perhaps and possibly a hint of a tease. He had no doubt that Aulë had always used it in reference to his somewhat intemperate tendencies just as much as it had been a reference to his skills with the flames and his abilities to shape them around his will. It was the name of the young smith who had burnt his fingers the first time he had seen molten gold and could not resist touching the shining, beautiful liquid; it was the name of the rash apprentice who had time and time again flung down his hammer in a fit of impatient rage when his grand projects did not go the way he had envisioned them in his mind. It was only when he heard Aulë speak it that the irony struck him of how much that name sounded like the one the Elves had given him.

Yet there was no anger or hatred in that word as there was in the name that had become his own, but moments later, Sauron wished there had been. Instead, there was that nauseatingly infinite compassion that Aulë had always possessed, that sickening _trust_ that everyone had some good in them and that nothing could be wholly lost. Once Sauron – _no, Aulë's Nauron_ – might have believed in something similar, but now such a belief seemed so quaint and antiquated that it made Sauron's scorn for this gentle, unlordly Vala blaze anew.

"My lord," he said stiffly, distantly, the tone of his voice making it clear that the "my" was simply a convention of grammar and in no way reflected Sauron's actual loyalties.

Aulë might have been plain, but he was no fool. His eyes deepened and saddened at Sauron's stiff formality, which only increased Sauron's disdain. Such a trick in front of Morgoth would have earned him a swift dagger of the Dark Vala's piercing mind ripping through his consciousness like a crueler version of a slap across the face. But at this point, Sauron knew that Aulë had come to neither punish nor gloat. He was here to pity, and Sauron hated that more than anything else the Vala of Earth could have done.

"Fiery One," Aulë said again softly, "so you have come back."

Sauron resisted the urge to scoff at such an obvious statement. Aulë was weak and soft among the Valar, but it would not do to anger him, especially with his trial mere hours away. Instead, he replied in the same distant voice. "So it would appear."

Aulë took a step into the room and half-closed the door behind him. "I heard of Eönwë's account of your surrender and journey," he continued. "I did not know whether you would come or not."

Sauron remained silent.

"I hoped you would," the Vala lord went on. "Not just for my sake, either. I hope you feel that you have made the right decision, Fiery One."

This time, Sauron could not resist the curl in his upper lip. "I have made many decisions that I considered right," he said in a low voice. "But that does not seem to be a guarantee that anyone else will view them as such."

"And do you still consider your decision to…leave…us to be right?" Aulë asked, audibly pausing by the word _leave_. _A kinder word than 'betray',_ Sauron thought.

"Does that matter?" Sauron asked. "Now that I am here again?"

Aulë's eyes flickered with that strange inner flame of the Ainur. It had always been strong with Aulë, perhaps one of the many reasons that Morgoth had hated him especially. "I think it does," he said. "And so do many of the others. We know that the bonds of Morgoth are not easily thrown away, and nor is a desire for power and grandeur once such things have been tasted. You have drunk deep of both Morgoth's bondage and his gifts. Things will not be the same in Valinor – I trust that you already know this, and it gives me hope that you have come nevertheless. But still, a great many things will change depending on whether or not you view your past as a bondage and an evil – or not – and whether this journey of yours to Valinor is merely the lesser of two evils in your opinion, or whether it is truly a new beginning and a new hope."

Sauron's cheeks flushed as he listened the Aulë's slow, methodical words. His emotions stirred within him like seething water that has just been dipped with white-hot iron. His fiery temper bubbled up his throat until he could no longer contain himself. "Bondage and power!" he spat. "What would you know of either of those things? What do any of the Valar know of anything I have witnessed and known? Is that why you are here, Lord Aulë? To pity a fallen slave of Morgoth and to convince me before the trial that whatever sentence you place on my shoulders is a delight and a pleasure compared to my supposed agony in Middle-earth? I do not want your pity, or that of any living creature in Valinor!"

Aulë listened to Sauron's rant in silence, his face stone still. Only when angry words stopped spilling from the Maia's lips, leaving him breathing hard and trembling, did the Vala speak. "Then what do you want from us here, Sauron, if not our pity and our aid?"

_Will the tiresome fool never leave me in peace?_ Sauron thought. He felt spent and weary, not what he wanted to feel right before his trial. Aulë's question, so similar to Eönwë's, was not what he wanted to hear right now either. _What other choice did I have?_ he told himself. He had heard tales of the Noldor's exile from Valinor and the curse Námo had laid upon them for daring to challenge and disobey the Powers. He suddenly wondered if he was under a similar curse: forever doomed. To never find rest or happiness until the world ended. Did the choices he made really matter in the end, any more than Fëanor's had, or his cursed sons? Was he merely being yanked along by some cosmological string, and if so, why did it matter what he wanted? Why should he even bother figuring it out if it would only be yanked from under his nose the moment he laid his fingertip upon it?

Suspicions began to creep through his mind. Perhaps Aulë's visit was not as benign as it appeared. Perhaps the other Valar had sent him to eat away at Sauron's confidence and to undermine any rebellion he might still be harboring. Perhaps they meant to turn him into some drooling, pathetic lapdog, bereft of his will and powers, whining his thanks to them for sparing him from the evil fate that they themselves had driven him to.

For had they not done so? Melkor had told him as much far more times than he could count. "What choice do they leave you?" Melkor had crooned in his ear. "They have divvied up this world and all its power amongst themselves, and they are merely throwing you enough scraps to keep you satisfied and blind to what you _might_ have. You were powerful among the Ainur. Your song, no less than theirs, brought forth the vision of Eä. By keeping your inheritance from you, they are driving you to reach out and seize it by force. Take it and become your own lord. Cast off the burden of the Valar and show them that you are not afraid to do what they are daring you to do. It is your fate, Mairon, your doom written from the beginning, to wear the grandeur of lordship. Who are they to keep it from you?"

Sauron pressed his hands over his ears, his head ringing. A thousand voices, his own, Melkor's, Aulë's, and a myriad others, reverberated inside his mind. He felt dizzy, as if the world were tilting crazily, and up and down and left and right seemed to have no meaning. A piercing stab of some mental agony tore through his mind and he cried out as if he had been physically injured. At least under Morgoth, there were certain incarnate truths that he had built his life upon and had known and trusted without fail: that there was no turning back from the choices he had made, that Gaurhoth and the iron of Angband were his home and the source of his glorious power and dominion, that there was only one Power in Eä that mattered and he sat on a black throne, crowned with the Silmarilli.

But these truths had failed him and left him shattered and broken. First Eönwë, and now Aulë, were slowly tearing down that fortress he had built about himself, telling him that it had been lies he'd lived upon for so long and that they could offer him something different. There were no truths for him here, no iron certainties he could find his footing on. If he disobeyed Morgoth, he had known without fail that he could expect the Vala's lash; if he proved faithful and useful, he had known without fail that he could expect that Vala's dark praise and gifts of power. There were no such certainties here. He did not know what to believe, what to expect, what he was supposed to do or feel. He was lost. And that, perhaps more than anything else, terrified him to his core.

"I don't know!" he screamed, at Aulë, at Morgoth, at Eönwë, at the voices in his head. "I don't know!" And then his carefully constructed control slipped again for the second time that day, for it too had been built upon those deceitful certainties under Morgoth, and he was cursing and raging and hating himself for it (how could he have never realized how much he hated _himself_?), and then somehow his body was crumpled, cowering against the wall and the unfamiliar bed that was not his, his mind reeling, his legs no longer able to hold him. Unsummoned, pictures flashed through his mind: Melkor leaning against the wall, holding a crown that Sauron had just made, smiling with the firelight reflecting from the gold into his dark eyes where it vanished; a Noldorin prisoner bound to some hideous contraption of which only Sauron knew the exact workings, screaming and crying as Valaraukar lashed his naked body with fiery whips while a dark shadow (Sauron's) questioned him from the edge of the room where the blood could not splatter him; the impenetrable towers of Thangorodrim buckling in upon themselves and falling, the motion seemingly slow from so far away, each rock hurling down the next until the greatest fortress of Arda collapsed upon the ground in a ruin that seemed to shake the foundations of the world; elven eyes piercing him from every side, hate-filled but no longer afraid, chanting a crescendo of words in his ears: _May the Valar deal with you as you deserve, dark one! Join your evil master!_

"I hate you!" Sauron heard himself shriek, though he did not know to whom he said it. Then he plunged into darkness, and his mind went blissfully blank.


End file.
